


The Broken Arms

by madamebomb



Category: Green Lantern: The Animated Series
Genre: Gen, Razaya - Freeform, Sort of Razaya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:37:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4921627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamebomb/pseuds/madamebomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why is a stranger meeting a trader in a rough tavern on a dirty, backwater moon? Why, for the story of a woman, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Broken Arms

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first chapter of what might have been a longer story, but I'll probably never finish it. So it's a one-off. Enjoy.

The Broken Arms was as reputable a tavern as the little Trader’s Moon it was located on. The hunched little building was dimly lit, hidden in a back alley a few blocks from the famous and infamous black markets and slave auctions. Its relative distance from the hustle and bustle was enough to bring in the roughest clientele the moon had to offer. It’s dimly lit interior was perfect for criminals on the run trying to eat in peace and for shady, beneath the table deals.

 Everything about the tavern looked disreputable, from its soot-blackened walls, to the mean-eyed bartender, serving drinks with eight synchronized, scarred arms roughly the size of concrete pillars. The servers had the same sharp-eyed looks about them. Danger and death were daily customers in the Broken Arms and the wait staff was ever on the alert, for all that they turned their backs on the deals going down in the darkened corners.

 Tonight the tavern was doing a rowdy business, the rain outside having brought in a crowd of freshly arrived salvagers from a space scow that had made port that morning. Through their loud celebration and boisterous drinking, no one was paying much attention to the two figures in the corner of the tavern.

 One was a familiar face to the wait staff, a swindler who called himself a trader. The other, a hooded figure no one recognized, had been oddly quiet. An air of calm and poise radiated from him like the warmth from a fire.

He should have stuck out in that crowd like a sore thumb. Instead, he blended in with the shadows as he sat back in his chair across from the trader.

“Yeah, I know a few things about a few things,” the trader said as he hunched over his meal, which smelled vaguely of tar and old sweat socks and looked about as appetizing. The waitress set down a massive tankard of what looked like beer beside the trader’s overflowing plate, shot the both of them an interested look, and then walked away.

The trader watched her go, a lusty leer spreading across his dun-colored face. He had a wide mouth, the corners as pliable as clay and covered in a thin scrub of dusty whiskers that spread down in his massive collection of chins in a dirty wave. Food and bits of dirt were dried into his beard. His nose was a squashy thing, cleaved open and then healed up from some massive blow. Most likely from a bar brawl. His eyes were yellow, small and squinting, with a mean edge to them that belied the trader’s hidden cunning.

“That one’s a sweet piece of meat, make no mistake,” the trader said, showing a row of blackened teeth worn down to dull stumps. A purple tongue flicked across his rubbery lips as he cut his gaze back to the stranger seated across from him at the dirty little table. “For half a coin she’ll give you a night you’ll never forget. She’s worth it, lad.”

The stranger stared at him from across the table, the gleam of his eyes barely visible beneath the hood of his dark cloak. All the trader could make out in the tavern’s dim lighting was the stranger’s unamused mouth, and the black markings on his chin and cheeks. The stranger hadn’t so much as glanced at the waitress.

“Not from around these parts, are ye? We gets lots o’ strangers here. Marketplace is known in a lot o’ galaxies as the best,” the trader said, grabbing his tankard and taking a deep drink.

“With the most well-stocked and unregulated black market.”

The trader smiled at him, beer slopping down the corners of his too-wide mouth and dripping into his filthy beard. “Proud o’ that, too, we are. So why are you here? Lookin’ for yer own slave girl?”

“No. I’ve traveled a long way from home, but not for black market wares,” the stranger answered curtly, his arms resting upon the table in a neutral position, one hand tucked into the sleeve of his robes, the other tapping impatiently on the wood. There was a small glass of something alcoholic at his elbow, but as far as the trader could tell the stranger hadn’t touched it. Nor had he ordered anything to eat…which was probably for the best. The food at the Broken Arms was disgusting, but delightfully cheap.

“Then whatdya want, mate? And why did you send for me? Not that I don’t appreciate the meal and the…uh…fine company, but if you ain’t after goods, what could you possibly want me fer? Wait..I didn’t fuck yer sister, did I?”

The stranger’s mouth tightened beneath his hood as he leaned forward in his chair a little. “I’m after a story. And I was told to find Bloxlic the Trader if I wanted it. I want to know about the Cradle.”

The trader leaned back, his tankard slamming into the table hard enough to slosh the stinking, steaming beer over the rim and onto the table.

“Jus’ a story, that. S'all I have to tell you. Just stories told by pirates and traders and men so superstitious they can’t take a piss without praying to whatever backwater God their mommy’s a-raised ‘em on. Can’t believe a word they say.”

“Nevertheless,” the cloaked stranger said, and produced a clinking bag from the sleeve of his robe. He dropped it on the table between them and it pooched open, showing the gleam of golden coins inside. “I’ve come for the story and I mean to have it.”

A greedy smile broke over the trader’s face and he reached out with his grubby, stumpy hands, pulling the purse toward him. He counted the coin with an expert eye and then shoved it into the pocket of his dirty overalls.

“S'yer lookout then, mate,” he said and grabbed his knife, spearing a hunk of the black meat steaming on his plate. He shoved the chunk into his mouth and then said around the mouthful, “I heard this from a friend of mine, who was there. Now he was a bullshit artist of the highest–or lowest caliber–however you wanna look at it, and I never believed a word that coms out o’ his mouth. He’d have lied to his own mother if it got him a little gold.

"Anyway, his name was Skaklar. 'Bout ten months ago he signed on to work aboard a pissant little space frieghter called the Dockrose. I knew the Captain o’ the Dockrose a bit. Used to trade with him. Cap was a bit of a pirate, or rather he’d have like to have been.” The trader swallowed his masticated meat and then took another sloppy drink of beer. “Mostly he was a scavenger, picked the bones of other wrecks, took the jobs no one else wanted. Cap was as twisted as my prick, if'n bein’ honest. And he never missed an opportunity to make a profit.

"So Skaklar tells me second run the Cap signs up for is to the Lonely Nebula. You heard of it?”

The stranger nodded and fiddled with a ring on his hand; the trader eyed it as if it might be worth something, and the stranger quickly withdrew his hand back into his sleeve again. “There’s nothing there but a few barren moons and a lot of empty space. It’s devoid of life or anything of worth. The ion cloud makes it nearly impossible to navigate safely and it plays havoc with instruments.”

“Hence the name, mate. S'not even worth the trip. Most of the time. But see, the Cap of the Dockrose, he heard a rumor,” Bloxlic said, spearing another chunk of meat. The stranger grimaced, watching him eat the foul-smelling food. “Well, we all heard the rumor. Legend, really. Seems one o’ them so-called barren moons is supposed to be the hidden treasure cache of some long-forgotten pirate. S'just rumors and ain’t nobody ever found anything on any of the moons s'far as I can tell. But ol’ Cap decides he’s goin’ ta find this treasure come Horklac or high water. And he got himself a financial backer. Skaklar don’t know who it was, but they wasn’t on the trip and I’m thinkin’ they didn’t get their money’s worth.”

The stranger nodded again. “Go on.”

“So they take the Dockrose out to the Nebula and what do they find?” The trader paused for dramatic effect, brandishing his crusty knife.

“Nothing?” the stranger intoned in a flat voice.

“Fuck load o’ nuthin’, which is just what he shoulda known he’d find. Searched every moon they could find from one end of the sector to the other and they ain’t find shit. Now, ol’ Cap starts ta get nervous 'cuz he promised his financial backer he’d come home with that treasure, and not just nervous, but scared shitless. Whoever the backer is, he’s probably powerful and around here that means the Cap’s life was on the line. So they’re about to leave the nebula when they come across this shitty little moon no bigger than a space whale’s dick. Accordin’ to Skaklar it was more like an asteroid in size. 'Cept this thing’s round as a worm’s ass and emittin’ some sort of radio distress signal.

"Cap figures it’s a downed wreck and decides to scavenge a bit. So he lands the Dockrose near this crevisse in the moon where the signal’s comin’ from. Ain’t no air or nuthin’ so they put on suits and decide to rapell down into the crevisse. Skaklar volunteered to stay behind with the Dockrose. Cap agreed and he and the four other crew members went down the gullet, so to speak.”

The trader took another drink of beer and then leaned in toward the stranger. “Now this is where shit gets weird and I heard o’ some weird shit before, stranger. Skaklar and the Cap had comms on so they was talkin’ back and forth as they went into the crevisse. There was writing on the walls, and scratches, like somethin’ had tried to claw its way out of that hole. Somethin’ big.”

The stranger’s mouth tightened and the trader noticed the way his body tensed. “And what did the writing say?”

“I don’t know what language it was in, but the Cap’s rough translation to Skaklar was, 'This is the Cradle. From this all are born.’ Leastaways that’s what Skaklar told me and I think you know how I feel about his honesty. Far as I know the Cap knew one language and he could barely speak it, let alone read it. Translatin’ an ancient language? I’d have a better chance o’ winnin’ the Miss Universe pageant.”

“Perhaps he had a universal translator?”

“Yeah, maybe. I still call borklianshit on the whole thing. Anyway, seems they finally reached the bottom o’ the crevisse and what to do they find? Some sort of temple, with more of that writing. And let me tell you, the Cap was excited. Thought he’d found that treasure he was after. They got the doors open and went inside. Expected to see gold and jewels, I’d wager.”

“There was none?”

“Nope. Somethin’ better. There were statues everywhere and according to Skaklar, the Cap said there was some sort of altar. And on the altar there was this…light. Cap described it as green and white and sparklin’ like a diamond in the sun. It seemed to be shaped like a person. A woman, if Skaklar’s to be believed. But it weren’t flesh and blood.”

The stranger’s hands fisted on the table, a small tremor of excitement easily spotted in the way he shifted in his seat. He glanced around at the dimly lit tavern. “What happened next?”

“What happened? That’s when Skaklar heard every single one of them die bloody, that’s what happened, stranger. All Skaklar heard was the Cap say that somethin’ was coming out o’ the walls at them. Somethin’ big and mean and hungry. Then a whole lot o’ screamin’. And then nothin’. Comm went dead. Skaklar put on a suit and went onto the surface, screamin’ for the Cap and the rest and…”

“That thing came after him, did it?”

“Oh yeah. It climbed out of the hole. Skaklar said it was big, covered in fur and tits and fangs and it was hellbent for his flesh. He managed to get back to the Dockrose, but not before that thing had damn near sliced his belly open. The beast tore I don’t know how many holes in the ship, but Skaklar managed to get it back into the sky and escaped.”

“He made it all the way back to Trader’s Moon injured?”

“Horklac, no. He met with some pirates who saw the Dockrose was limpin’ along and decided to strip her for what she was worth. Skaklar bargained for his life, gave up the ship, and everything in it and they doctored him as much as they could and then shoved him out at Trader’s Moon docks a few days later, near dead. I happened to be there at the time and happened to get the story from him just before he died of the rot.”

The stranger sat back and chewed on his bottom lip. His hand turned, displaying the ring on his finger. The trader’s gaze narrowed on it again, his hand itching to hold the pretty bauble.

“So that’s the story of the Cradle as I heard it from Skaklar before he died. I been tellin’ it to anyone who wants ta listen, especially when I’m in my cups. Makes for a great story, but it’s a load of piss.”

“If it’s not true, then what happened to the crew of the Dockrose and your friend Skaklar?”

The trader shifted in place, his yellow eyes flicking back and forth. “I don’t know, but there ain’t no little moon out there in the Lonely Nebula. It’s been charted. Ain’t nobody ever seen it before. Moons just don’t appear like that. Skaklar was dying and fevered and professionally full o’ shit. That’s all.”

The stranger steepled his hands in front of him, apparently lost in thought. The trader’s eyes narrowed on his ring again. After a moment the stranger let out a breath and stood up with a scrape of chair legs on the scarred wooden floor.

“Thank you for the story, Bloxlic, and for your time,” the stranger said and then started to walk away. The trader reached out an arm and grabbed the stranger’s wrist.

“Hold on a minute. Why’d you want to hear the story?”

“My reasons are my own.”

“I can respect that. But I’m thinkin’ you didn’t pay me enough for my time and trouble. How 'bout you give me that pretty blue ring on your finger and we call it even?”

“Take your hands off of me,” the stranger said calmly.

“Is it worth anything?”

“More than you know,” the stranger said, and then turned his wrist, breaking the trader’s hold on him. The stranger’s hand extended, palm outward and he shoved the trader back into his chair. He landed with a dull thump, the rickety chair giving a groan as the trader’s girth strained its joints.

Bloxlic’s rubbery lips pulled back from his stumpy brown teeth as he climbed to his feet again. “Ain’t no way ta treat a friend.”

“I am not your friend,” the stranger said with obvious disgust.

“Ain’t no way to treat a trader, neither. 'Specially not one o’ my standing. I don’t much care fer yer disrespect, stranger. I’ll have that ring, or you’ll have a knife in yer belly. Think that’ll make a good story?”

The trader swung at the hooded stranger, who sidestepped the blow with ease. Bloxlic moved at him again, his wide belly swaying as his large fists beat at the air, and came up wanting. The stranger was fast, moving with a fluid, dancer’s grace, mocking him.

“Hold still, you fucking–”

The trader’s crusty meat knife slashed at the air, inches from the stranger’s tattooed face. A look of rage suddenly overcame the previous calmness of his demeanor, and he reached out, grasping Bloxlic’s wrist and turning it. A booted food came up and sank into the soft of the trader’s belly and he went sprawling across the table, upsetting his grotesque dinner and splashing the rank beer across the wall, the floor, and all over the rowdy salvagers. They stood as a man, looks of anger on their dripping faces as they looked from the trader to the stranger.

“Yer fuckin’ dead,” one of them said, smacking his scarred fist into his palm.

“Perhaps it is time for me to leave,” the stranger said, but there was a resolve in his voice, a weary sort of acceptance as he clenched his hands into fists.

To the trader watching from his sprawl on the floor among the slimy remains of his dinner, everything seemed to happen too fast for the telling of it. One moment the stranger, slight, slender and obviously outmatched, was in the center of the menacing group of salvagers. Someone swung a chair at his head, and it exploded in a flash of blue light that blinded the whole tavern. Someone shouted. A window shattered, raining thin glass down onto the floor in a jagged landslide. The blue light pulsed, intensified, and then everyone in the Broken Arms was thrown to the floor.

The trader covered his streaming eyes, and when he opened them, he saw that the stranger was the only one standing. His hood had fallen back in the fight, and he displayed a young, handsome face, tattooed with several black lines, glowing blue eyes rimmed in black, with a shock of white hair falling in slashes across his forehead. The blue ring on his finger glowed like a star, with a steady, calming light that seemed to affect everyone in the Broken Arms.

“What are you?” the trader asked as the stranger calmly pulled his hood back into place.

He could just make out the curve of the stranger’s lips beneath the hood. “A man whose hopes you have rekindled. Thank you again for the story.”

The trader watched as the stranger flew out of the broken window and into the rain, which swallowed him whole, leaving nothing behind but the vague feeling of calm that slowly faded. Bloxlic picked himself up and brushed glass and food off of his expansive gut. He surveyed the Broken Arms, the shady customers, the mean-eyed bartender, the loose-legged waitresses, and the glass on the dirty floor.

He smirked and spat onto the floor “This is gonna be one fuck of a story.”


End file.
